Dignity And Love Were Never Yet Boon

The Blackest Ink Of Fate Are Sure My Lot, And When Fate Writ My Name It Made A Blot.

He That Dies Before Sixty, Of A Cold Or Consumption, Dies, In Reality, By A Violent Death.

An Author Ought To Consider Himself, Not As A Gentleman Who Gives A Private Or Eleemosynary Treat, But Rather As One Who Keeps A Public Ordinary, At Which All Persons Are Welcome For Their Money.

Nothing Can Be So Quick And Sudden As The Operations Of The Mind, Especially When Hope, Or Fear, Or Jealousy, To Which The Other Two Are But Journeymen, Set It To Work.

O Innocence, How Glorious And Happy A Portion Art Thou To The Breast That Possesses Thee! Thou Fearest Neither The Eyes Nor The Tongues Of Men. Truth, The Most Powerful Of All Things, Is Thy Strongest Friend; And The Brighter The Light Is In Which Thou Art Displayed, The More It Discovers Thy Transcendent Beauties.